Tiny Gigantic

This might be the coolest, best designed blog I've seen in quite some time, not to mention the fact that they have these great conceptual pieces that satirize office life ("Dear Bosses" and "How to Clean Out Your Desk") and self-help manuals ("How to be a Better Lover").

Please note that I'm saying this regardless of the fact that they recently plugged a little project of mine, for which I'm forever grateful. Trust me. I wouldn't lie to you.

Ric Stultz

Winter 2007 Update. As you can see, this guy is an amazing painter.

The Criteria

Went to Edinburgh Castle last night with my friend Josh. (It was trivia night, and the place, for being a dive bar, was jumping, with all the Tenderloin hipsters in attendance.) Anyway, he just got a book deal for his project, Written on the City, so it was cool to chat with him about it as well as the new collection I'm putting together, of which one of his stories is featured. While discussing how things came about - how the publisher essentially discovered him - it suddenly became crystal clear how inept I am at marketing myself - how I just have no desire to convince people that they should give my stories a chance (if they don't get it right away, they must be clueless, right?) - and ultimately, how easy it is for him to transition into "that" mode, where he's upselling you. Maybe that's not a fair assessment. He's as uncomfortable as I am, deep down, about self-promotion, but he's a charmer, and he's able to put all that aside and get down and dirty and convince the right people, even if they're cunts, that his ideas are brilliant, and they love it, I mean they eat it up, they need it, they can't get enough of it. And ultimately, that's why he's successful.

That's not to say that it hasn't been a good year for me, I'm just seeing things on a whole different level suddenly, and I don't want to be stuck dealing with the bookstores and the inventory managers and the sales game any longer. To steal a line from the Brits, it's bollocks.

I guess what I really mean is, if there are any marketing people out there amongst the masses that come to this little site each day (who are you people anyway? and what do you want from me?), and if you're about 5'4 to 5'7, 105 - 115 pounds, with piercing blue eyes (although if you have a fusion of blue and green, depending on the color top you're wearing, well, that's cool too) and a smile that makes the world stop for a moment in admiration, and you're a female (who has always been one) who likes to walk and do spontanteous things, and you're pleasant to deal with, and have a strong sense of humor, and get sarcasm, and you know how to behave in public (particularly restaurants) and you're not clingy, you're not an attention whore, and you don't pick fights at the worst moments, and you happen to be creative and full of positive energy and share a general sense of compassion for those less fortunate, and you can deal with sudden bouts of misanthropic fear, or perhaps even sometimes a general disdain for humanity at large, and you can deal with the constant quoting of either Fletch ("Sugar, Mr. Poon?") Fight Club ( "I am Jack's inflamed sense of rejection.") or The Royal Tenenbaums ("Anybody feel like grabbing a couple of burgers and hitting the cemetery?"), and if you don't mind the occasional parlait on NBA Sunday, or the doubleheader on Tuesday afternoon while sipping a small glass of Merlot, or the general insanity of having friends like mine (who do the damnest things, at the strangest hours) and seeing the world in this twisted, but beautiful way, well, if you fit the general paramaters of that, shoot me a line, attach your resume, tell me your sweatest dreams and your deepest fears. Perhaps we can work something out.

Right on. Thanks.

Light Children

For those of you into graphic novels, here's a gorgeous site that functions like a movie trailer, where everything is in sneak preview mode. These guys are onto a novel concept, not to mention the fact that the characters look really cool, so it might be worth checking back from time to time to see where they go with this.

Contentment

Thought about waiting outside the Great American Music Hall to score a ticket for tonight's Cold War Kids show, was supposed to go out to dinner with my housemate and her new boyfriend but at the last minute she canceled (which was a relief because I'm beat), almost stopped off at 3-4 dive bars on the walk home, but decided instead to run by the lab and pick up my latest batch of photos, which I've included a sample of below. Tomorrow I think I might catch a bus to Ocean Beach, have a Ratcatcher moment staring out the window, and finish a story I've been contemplating for three months. Exciting huh? Well, I'm content, especially since I'm going to stay up late and watch The Departed (for a second time), The Killing Fields, and a two-disc documentary on Pavement.

Notes From the Cave

Ortlos is "the appropriate designation for a virtual office and discussion forum dealing with experimental architecture, urban planning, media theory, art installations, and interface design." It's also an amazing site.

The Return is, for sure, one of my five favorite films, and this site has some still frames to give you a glimpse of just how gorgeous the cinematography really is.

R.I.P Dennis Johnson

You brought some wonderful joys to me as a child. This clip is one of the first that comes to mind, as well as the night I shook your hand at the Oakland Coliseum. Finals MVP, three-time champion, a player more concerned with winning than stats, and by all accounts, a great person.

The Whole Brevity Thing

Purchased tickets yesterday for the Kaiser Chiefs/The Walkmen show at The Warfield on April 27th. Should be awesome, even though the idea of waiting two months is kind of lame. I dropped the ball for the Dandy Warhols and Cold War Kids, respectively, and now both concerts are sold out, so I didn't want to delay with this one, especially since the last time I saw The Walkmen I had a religious experience.

Mick Rock is “The Man Who Shot the 70s.” Check out his classic images of David Bowie, Iggy Pop, and Syd Barrett.

This is a beautiful photography site by Bernhard Wolff.

Space Oddity

On the way to work this morning, this lady was trying to parallel park her green Mercury Cougar in a tight space, and as I was watching, I knew it was going to be trouble. She kept backing up, inch-by-inch, when suddenly she smacked into a motocycle that was parked behind her. The whole thing tipped over. It was quite surreal. I was the only spectator in the vicinity, and she immediately glared at me, checking to see if I was going to come over. She got out, pretended to inspect the motorcycle, made a half-hearted attempt to lift it, failed miserably, and then got back into her car. She then sat there for a minute, panicking, I'm sure. I was cutting it tight as far as work goes, and was torn between the good samaritan side, which said, make sure she at least leaves a note - accepting responsibility for the damage - and the just don't give a fuck side, which said, this has nothing to do with you, dude, you're going to be late for work if you get involved, and really, who knows, maybe the guy with the motorcycle is a cock and this is some kind of karmic justice? Anyway, I kept walking, a little slower now, debating the merits of each side in my head. Finally, though, I said forget it, it's not my business. Once the woman in the Cougar saw that I had left the scene, she put her transmission in drive and mashed around the corner, out of sight, out of mind, and as I turned one last time to see the motorcycle just lying there, I was struck with this weird taste in my mouth.

Soon, though, I was at Starbuck's, getting a triple espresso, and then later at my desk, combing through e-mails, and within an hour, the whole thing will be a distant memory, just a blip on the radar of life in the big city.

Rust and Decay

I found the following article and photographs interesting, as I've always been attracted to rust and decay as an aesthetic, and nothing is more in a state of neglectful chaos than the former nuclear plant in Chernobyl. The part where the author had to go through three different radiation checks was surreal, to say the least. It's weird, because, we used to go out to Rancho Seco when I was a kid, to swim or canoe in the lake that surrounds the nuclear plant. Never once did I question what might be in the air or water, or what might happen if there was an accident, or what the long-term ramifications were. Ignorance is bliss, I guess.

Asleep for a Day

The Chinese owner of the laundromat down the street knows very little English, so when he sees me he digs into his bag of tricks and says, "Hi. How are you?" and every time - despite already knowing that he doesn't understand me, I say, "Good, thanks, how are you?" thinking we're finally ready to connect, to have a bonding conversation, which is then met with this blank stare, because he doesn't know how to respond. Then, after about thirty seconds of awkward silence he'll say , "Happy New Year" which sounds nice, except it's the middle of February and he's already said this to me six times, and each successive one loses a little of its sincerity.

A while later he saw me struggling with the change machine. I put the dollar in correctly, using the image on the feeder as a guide, but it kept spitting out my money, despite the paper being relatively wrinkle-free. After a few minutes of frustration, I turned the dollar around, with the face in the wrong direction (sometimes this works, ya know?) and again, no dice. Finally the owner comes over, points at the instructions and says "Follow pic-cha." So I turn the dollar back around and boom, it takes it. While grabbing my quarters he kept repeating himself, and giggling, "Pic-cha. Follow Pic-cha."

I tried to explain my logic in turning the dollar around, how the machine wasn't taking it so I flipped it over, but then halfway through my explanation I realized he didn't understand a word I was saying. I was just a dumb white guy, and he was going to laugh at me regardless of what I did.

Later in the evening, while leaving Amoeba Records, I saw Casey. We made eye contact and I thought about stopping to talk, but then remembered I had already blown it so I just kept going with my head down, pretending as if I didn't recognize her. When I got home she sent a text message, teasing me for what happened, and for thinking she was mad because of a dumb reference I used in a story about her. It's funny the way I become convinced people are pissed at me, only to discover that they have more important things to concern themselves with. We discussed grabbing dinner Wednesday night, getting all dressed up and doing the stereotypical thing, which could be amusing, I guess, if I have the patience to deal with everybody.

Let me digress by saying there's nothing wrong with buying your lover some chocolate or a bouquet of flowers or going out for a romantic dinner. I just think we can do it anytime of the year. Not to sound conspiratorial, but the flower and candy industries have invested a ton of money into getting people to consume (and making them feel guilty if they don't), and it's amazing how many of my friends get depressed because they don't have someone to go out with on Valentine's. It's bullshit, if you ask me.

I ended up buying "The Velvet Goldmine soundtrack" (with cool tracks by Thom Yorke, Roxy Music, Brian Eno, Lou Reed and various members of The Stooges and Sonic Youth), Syd Barrett's first album "The Madcap Laughs," and The Chemical Brothers "Surrender" (which has the most beautiful collaboration with Mazzy Star lead singer Hope Sandoval) - all of which provided great dreams into the early morning.

Also, I finally made my way through City of Men - all nineteen episodes - this past weekend, and it was really fascinating. If you enjoyed City of God and The Constant Gardener, it's by the same director, and the photography alone is worth checking out, let alone the fusion of humor and intense, gritty drama. I also saw The Science of Sleep Sunday night, rather than waste my time with The Grammys (I did see The Police's performance on Youtube). I can't say I didn't like the film, but it certainly was a bit of a disappointment, if only because, again, I let my expectations get the better of me. The visuals were really cool, and the premise was interesting, but it just didn't carry the same weight that Eternal Sunshine did, although there were some similarities in plot and tone. I guess I just don't buy into the whole Michel Gondry hype. He has a cool style, and I like all the optical illusions and stop-motion animation, but narratively, he's not as brilliant as many hipsters make him out to be.

Just A Realization

Last night I saw the same Chinese lady doing laundry that I've seen the past three Mondays. I don't know whether it's the way she stares at me stone-faced or how she guards her belongings when I walk by, but there's something about her that just irritates me. Anyway, I decided to wait for my stuff to dry, rather than go home, because I wanted to finish another Ian McEwan story, and while I was sitting there, she worked the machines like a mad woman. She had six dryers going all at once, but it was probably only one load - total - divided between the different machines, and every thirty seconds she would touch one to gauge how hot it was and then take an article out and move it to another machine, but she did it so quickly that she didn't have to push start again, they just kept running seemlessly. Then in thirty seconds she would take another article of clothing out and put it in another machine. It was so bizarre, how she recycled everything back and forth, like there was some kind of pattern in the chaos, and she kept turning around to glare at me, like I was the one behaving strange. I spent a good 28 minutes reflecting on why she was doing this - I mean it served no advantage, none - and yet I couldn't figure it out.

This afternoon I went to UC Berkeley to hire an intern. On the BART ride over I imagined having six hot girls to choose from, and all the things I would have them do. I saw some 23 year-old nectar in a tight skirt bringing me double espressos and re-sizing jpegs and always being apologetic for being like five minutes late, where I would sarcastically say, don't let it happen again.

Of course it turned out to be nothing but international students, so every conversation I would say, so have you heard of Led Zeppelin? Or you know who Iggy Pop is, right? And they would stare at me blankly and say, 'I'm a finance major - I just want internship,' and then I would laugh at the absurdity and futility of it all, and they would smile and say, 'you nice man. I want to work for you.'

The bizarre thing was, certain companies sent whole teams to this event, I mean ten fuckin' representatives, and they were all dressed in suits, and I walked in with jeans and my shirt untucked, and I just couldn't have been more out of place. I like that I'm not one of those douchebags (perhaps I'm just a different kind of douche?) but it still seemed like the record scratched as soon as I entered the auditorium. That awkwardness, coupled with the Sting "Fields of Gold" single playing over and over, made the time go by extremely slow.

And yet, there was this Indian guy next to me, and he wanted to find an intern who was willing to relocate to Miami (internships are non-paid positions, mind you), and the only reason he was there was because he knew American students would never fall for such a hustle. (Move to Miami, work for free, and after four months you might get hired. Yeah, right.) The guy was cool to me, but he also had this shyster side to him, and he kept perving on the same 4-5 cuties who did drop by our area, literally reaching out when they tried to walk off, and then going into quick salesman mode.

Ultimately I probably spoke to ten people the whole time I was there, most of them little girls who were shy and uncertain, and when six PM came I packed and bolted out of there. The organizer of the event flagged me down as I was leaving, and asked how it went, and it took all of my strength to not say how I really felt, that an art gallery was out of place in this scene, that none of the students had done any preparation prior to coming, that it was one big social event for UC Berkeley alumni and the only saving grace was the Indian guy next to me, just because his mannerisms were so epic and his mission so wrong - well that and the fat Greek dude on the other side who took off his sportscoat and revealed a layer of sweat up his back that was nothing short of disturbing (his shirt was light blue so that really accentuated it), especially when he started hugging Asian girls and they didn't see the puddle until it was too late. (One woman had this horrific look on her face when she felt the moisture, and when she turned around - seeking some kind of acknowledgment from me for how gross it was - I fell over laughing.)

As soon as it got out I went to Jupiter's - the one Berkeley spot Christina hasn't tainted - and had a quick Boddington. Suddenly a crowd from the event walked in, so I slammed half my beer and hopped on BART, which was right across the street.

The point of all this is, we're so fucking doomed, I mean seriously, we have no chance as a society, not because of these strange cultural exchanges (they're actually a bright spot), just because people as a hole are just going through the motions, unsure of what it is they're actually doing, and every adventure just seems to lead to new forms of surrealism, and it just seems as if we might as well get a few kicks in before all this madness comes to an end.

New Site

Matt DeCoste just completed a website for Things Kept Burning, my new collection of stories that came out last September. As part of the promotional work in support of the book, I wrote a self-interview. (It's been a few months since I've looked at it but it still cracks me up.) Another buddy, Brian Milo, supplied the photograph. Both artists will be featured in my new book, as well as eight other brilliant friends, which we're hard at work on now. A book-signing tour is also in the works. Stay tuned for dates and locations. (All hecklers are welcome.)

Thank you.